


who wants to be a billionaire

by gsparkle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 08:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17825453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gsparkle/pseuds/gsparkle
Summary: Being a famous CEO isn’t all fancy parties and expensive cars and endless, enthusiastic parade of name-irrelevant bedfellows.Well, okay. It’s mostly that.(An Iron Man AU, sort of, wherein Natasha is an obnoxiously wealthy CEO and Clint is her long-suffering assistant.)





	who wants to be a billionaire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/gifts).



> So, for the 2019 Be_Compromised Valentines Prompt-A-Thon, the lovely **CloudAtlas** prompted: "Bored trophy wife/rich lady Natasha falls in love with busker/pickpocket/receptionist/some other low/no pay job!Clint. Pining and angst with a happy ending." 
> 
> Which... isn't totally what this is? It's more like "Natasha is Tony Stark, before he gets kidnapped by the Ten Rings and also without his interest in robotics." So, uh. Yeah?
> 
> <3 to **santiagoinbflat** for the reading, always!

Everyone knows who Natasha Romanoff is:

She's the lost heir of the Romanov family, snuck into the country to preserve the dynastic line.

Ooh, isn't she the one building an army of killer robots to stage a coup and take over the country? Honestly, that would be sorta cool. This country is a dumpster fire.

No, that can't be true, because she's a plant from the NSA, meant to narc on the government contracting sector from within.

Yeah, but she's Russian, so she’s definitely a spy. Why would they get a literal Russian spy to do that? And how? Her only loyalty is to the Kremlin.

Didn't her parents die and leave her everything? She hasn't ever worked a day in her life; they just handed the company over to her. Nepotism at its finest.

I heard she killed her husband and covered it up.

I heard she got a doctorate from Cal Tech when she was 15.

I heard she makes everyone she sleeps with sign an NDA.

I heard she's a _bitch_.

\-----

(None of these stories are accidents. You don't become the most powerful woman in the world by telling the truth.)

\-----

“Rise and shine!”

Without opening her eyes, Natasha grabs the nearest pillow and flings it at the door. It’s a down pillow, heavy, and it thumps as it misses the mark. “You’re one hundred percent fired,” she groans, mainly into another pillow, completely without heat.

“I’ll get right on that.” The covers rip away and Natasha sits up to glare at Clint Barton, personal assistant and menace to society. He raises one eyebrow and grins. “If I’m fired, your comfort is no longer any of my concern, right?”

“I could have been _naked_ under there,” Natasha yawns, stretching languorously, limbs delightfully loose. “Or I could’ve had a guest--” And there definitely had been one last night: John--no, Jack. Jackie? Jane?

Clint spares her one glance so dry it could cut through the deep moisturizing massage she had the previous day. “Yes, how unusual that would be,” he comments, lumping the duvet back on the bed. “And if you’re looking for Mr. Barnes--James,” he amends when Natasha blinks at him, “he left the house about four hours ago.”

“ _James_ ,” Natasha says, dropping into an appreciative flashback of the night before: arms like steel and eyes like winter, but a mouth hotter than… She shivers. “Did you know--”

“I don’t need the highlight reel,” Clint says, putting out one preventative hand. “You’re late for your meeting with the Major General. May’s downstairs with the car.”

Natasha flops backward and sinks back into the pillows. “Fuck the Major General.”

“I don’t think he’s interested,” Clint says politely. He stands back from the bed, waiting at the door, but it’s clear he’s not leaving until Natasha gets out of bed. Once upon a time, she could’ve slunk into the bathroom, turned on the shower, then gotten back into bed; but it’s been years since that trick worked.

“Everybody’s interested,” Natasha tells him, and drags herself into the shower.

\-----

She’s a full hour late to the meeting, mostly because she’s hungover. Whatever. Par for the course. Anyway, the contract’s been signed for a month, and this is all a formality, the same pantomime over and over. Major General Ross calls her “young lady” and attempts to pat her ass; Natasha disinterestedly dislocates his thumb and wanders off to flirt outrageously with the reporter from the _Washington Post_ who’s barely out of college, he’s so green. Everybody shakes hands, everybody smiles big fake shiny smiles.

“We’re thrilled to do business with Romanoff Enterprises,” Major General Ross says through gritted teeth; he cradles one hand in the other and, when asked, says he knocked it against the table.

Everybody wins.

\-----

Being a famous CEO isn’t all fancy parties and expensive cars and endless, enthusiastic parade of name-irrelevant bedfellows.

Well, okay, it’s mostly that. But it’s also staying at the office until 4:57 in the morning, shoes long discarded, hair shoved into dishevelled hills, because the latest data reports don’t make sense and none of her analysts can make sense of it and if it’s not right by 7, Beijing will be mad. And she can’t go jogging outside anymore because people keep recognizing her and then showing up the next day with a résumé, or a business proposition, or their phone number scrawled onto a water bottle. She misses, like. Actually going shopping, the way the raised letters of a credit card feel against her fingertips. Sometimes her dreams are just data and code, like she’s in _The Matrix_ , red letters pouring behind her eyes, and when she wakes up in her big, lavish, cold, empty bed, she’s not all that sure this isn’t _The Matrix_ , after all; but worse, because at least everyone expects Keanu Reeves to show up for them, fight for them, save them. Nobody expects Natasha Romanoff to _do_ anything.

\-----

It would be accurate to refer to Clint as her (only) friend based on the following definition:

FRIEND (noun)  
_a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard._ (Nobody, including Clint, would believe this, but Natasha actually holds him in higher regard than anyone else she knows. Even on her best days, she can acknowledge that she can be… _difficult_ to manage. Honestly, Clint would be a better CEO of Romanoff Enterprises than Natasha; he’s brilliant when he wants to be, way more of a people person, spends a lot less time on the cover of the gossip magazines. Not that she’s telling him this anytime soon.)

 _a person who gives assistance; patron; supporter._ (Once, just before Natasha took the stage to give a keynote speech at an international women in contracting conference, Clint said, as if commenting on the weather, “These are the days that make me so fucking glad I work for you.” He’d been so proud of her that she’d felt it dissolving into her bones, something golden and good.)

  
_a person who is on good terms with another; a person who is not hostile._ (Sometimes Natasha’s not sure she’s on good terms with anyone _other_ than Clint. He appears to believe in her and, while she can’t figure out why, she’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.)

However, it would also be inaccurate to refer to Clint as her friend based on the same definition:

FRIEND (noun)  
_a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard._ (One time, Clint just watched as Natasha fell face-first into a ditch. Okay, she’d been drunk. And also, he’d told her not to go that way, but, like, in that really _snotty_ way he gets when she’s being obstinate. Clearly, no personal regard there.)

 _a person who gives assistance; patron; supporter._ ( _Paid_ assistance. Next question.)

  
_a person who is on good terms with another; a person who is not hostile._ (Anyone who has ever witnessed Clint browbeat Natasha into attending a charity gala is familiar with his convincing personification of the word _hostile_.)

\-----

[ _I need you to bring me twelve cans of Pedialyte_ ]

[ _Or Gatorade_ ]

[ _AND Gatorade_ ]

[ _Also, aspirin_ ]

[ _hello_ ]

[ _Clint the entire reason I have an assistant is to provide ASSISTANCE_ ]

The phone rings. “I’m busy,” Clint says, terse, clipped. There’s some kind of noise in the background, a repetitive _thok!_ It hurts to listen to, even muffled through the phone.

“Get _un_ busy,” Natasha snaps back. Even with a pillow over her eyes, the sun’s creeping fingers find ways to press on her eyeballs. “I’m literally dying.”

“I’m doing something actually important,” Clint says. There’s a voice in the background now, female. Natasha can hear his fingers clamp over the speaker of his phone; hears Clint say the words _my boss_ and _she’s ridiculous_ and _overgrown child_. “You can handle your hangover on your own for once,” he says back into her ear, too loud, probably on purpose.

With considerable effort, Natasha sits up in bed. “Your _date_ is not more important than your _job_. Get here. _Now_.”

While she waits, Natasha acquires sunglasses, wraps herself in a cashmere blanket, and drags herself, like a pathetic ooze, from her bed to the sitting room couch. There, she pulls the blanket over her head and engages in a vividly realistic envisionment of herself of drinking probably three consecutive bottles of Gatorade, the frosty blue kind with no apparent flavor. _I’m never drinking again,_ she lies to herself. _Never, ever, ever, ever_ \--

Clint drives like a grandma, but his trusty Volkswagen’s tires stop hard on the gravel. Clint is perfectly capable of sneaking up on her several times a day, so quietly does he step, but his footsteps reverberate off the shale flagstones of her courtyard. Clint moves carefully through her house like he’s afraid he’s going to break everything, but he slams the door open so hard it nearly bounces back into his face.

“ _Here_ ,” he snaps, one word lancing like an arrow across the foyer, followed by a 24-pack of Gatorade that thunks incongruously on marble. Natasha pulls the sunglasses off her face and squints at this version of her assistant she doesn’t recognize: old jeans and ratty purple sneakers, threadbare t-shirt stretching across his broad chest and shoulders, fury sharpening his cheekbones to razors and filing the cheer out of his eyes.

“Stop glaring at me,” Natasha says, drawing on nonchalance like armor. She doesn’t care that he’s mad. He’ll get over it. She doesn’t care.

“You are the most _selfish_ ,” Clint begins, “the most _immature_ ,” like he’s full of beginnings, like he’s started this lecture again and again on the car ride over. “Every time I think you’re turning a corner, every time I start to think you might maybe, _possibly_ have a heart--”

“You’re just mad I interrupted your date,” Natasha cuts in, smooth as a knife. “Although, frankly, I’m doing you a favor, Clint; what woman is going to be attracted to you when you’re dressed like a vagrant?”

Clint pushes a thumb against the bridge of his nose. “You know, I’ve been in your corner,” he says, quiet with fraying frustration, like an unraveling fuse. “I have always stood by you, and tried to make your already easy life as simple as possible.” He begins counting on long, square fingers. “I don’t judge you. I don’t talk to the press about you. I don’t take the job offers I get at other companies. All I asked for was _one_ day off a month.”

“There are no days off in this business,” Natasha says, baring her teeth to keep away the chill trying to settle around her shoulders. “Especially not for _dates_. What hot plans did you have in that get up? Movie premiere? Dinner at Spago?”

“You’re such an asshole,” Clint says, tiredly. He turns and walks out the door, leaving Natasha’s heart in her throat, pounding counterpoint to the throb of her hangover. _He wouldn’t leave_ , she thinks, _that’s not his way;_ but it slithers uncomfortably down her spine, the realization that she doesn’t know his way, not really. And in the middle of that, just as Natasha is about to do the unthinkable, stagger to the door in a pathetic but still unprecedented attempt to chase after someone, he returns.

“My ‘date,’” Clint says, so short the words barely exit his mouth. He steps aside and Natasha, in another unprecedented move, swallows the first thought comes to her mouth. Saying _Barton, even_ you _should know she’s too young_ is too cruel, even for her sharp-tongued hangover, because this girl is clearly a teenager, is clearly not a date. To the girl, Clint says, “This is Natasha Romanoff,” and she turns huge blue eyes on Natasha, awe-struck, trusting, impressed down to the ends of her black stick-straight hair.

“You’re,” squeaks the girl; looks mortified, clears her throat, tries again. “Sorry. I’m Kate. You’re my absolute _hero_ ,” she gushes, and Natasha meets Clint’s unsmiling eyes and thinks, _oh, hell._

“That’s, uh,” Natasha says, hungover and embarrassed about it for the first time possibly ever. “That’s really nice of you. It’s nice to meet you. I’m--” She has no idea how to speak to children. “How do you know Clint?”

Clint steps in. “We got matched through Big Brothers, Big Sisters a couple years ago,” he says in his _we have already discussed this five times_ voice. “As you know, Romanoff Enterprises sponsors the local chapter.”

“Yes,” Natasha says, big fake smile. “Of course.”

Sometimes it makes Clint laugh when Natasha pretends to be familiar with something she obviously isn’t; this is not one of those times. “Kate and I do archery together, once a month,” he says, and Natasha gives another startled glance at the muscles under his t-shirt. “It helps us release tension and escape the negativity of our current and past lives,” he goes on, forcibly bland, and Natasha feels like absolute shit. “You can go back to the car,” he tells Kate, steering her out the door, smiling until she’s out of sight.

“Clint, I’m--” Natasha begins, not even sure if she remembers which words are used for apologies anymore.

“Save it,” he says, angrier than she has ever heard him. “Drink your Gatorade and try caring about literally anyone else for once.” He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, then meets her gaze. “Will that be all, Ms. Romanoff?”

Natasha looks at the 24-pack of purple, disgusting, not-arctic-blue Gatorade and thinks it’s probably what she deserves. “That will be all, Mr. Barton.”

\-----

One time, Clint tried to get her to read this book about love languages. “I love how you think I’m capable of love,” she’d laughed, and he’d smiled like he’d known something she didn’t and left the book on her kitchen counter. She’d walked around it for a week before finally giving in. It’s bullshit, she decides at the end, because the little survey says her language is _words of affirmation_ when obviously it should be _receiving gifts_. Who could possibly want words when there was _stuff_? And Natasha can’t love Clint, because love is something only children believe in, but she does respect him, and sometimes even like him, and that’s probably close enough. Which means that she’s going to have to do something to make him not mad; and of course if she donates to a charity in his name, or whatever, he’ll just say that she’s throwing money at the problem instead of doing any actual caring.

He’d be right, of course. It’s worked pretty well in the past, all things considered, but Clint has this way of making her want to do exactly the thing she doesn’t want to, because it’s _right_ , because it’ll make him smile and crack some joke about her having a heart after all. Having a saint for an assistant is _completely_ inconvenient.

Fortunately, when you are extremely rich and only marginally less famous, you get what you want about as soon as you open your mouth and request it. _Ms. Romanoff, we’re so flattered you’re taking a personal interest! Of course we can pair you up with one of our youngsters! Is tomorrow too soon? We’re so glad you can take time out of your busy schedule to make a difference!_

And so it’s Sunday, and Natasha is slouched on a park bench in Pacific Palisades, waiting for her newly assigned Little Sister to show up so she can quickly Change A Kid’s Life and go home. The place is swarming with youths, many of whom seem like they’d be easy to boss around until suitably Changed For The Better; but the one that peels off when she takes note of Natasha’s hideously fluorescent Big Brothers Big Sisters t-shirt looks tough, tangles of dark curling hair framing her inscrutable face. She looks to be the same age as Clint’s protégé, but bulkier, stronger under the sleeves of her star-studded denim jacket.

“I’m America,” the girl says, chin tilted fractionally up like she knows Natasha’s rolling her eyes behind her sunglasses.

“Great,” Natasha says. “Could you move a little bit to the left? The sun’s, like, _right_ in my eyes.”

America crosses her arms and shifts her weight the opposite direction. “You’re kind of a dick,” she points out. She seems just as skeptical about this process as Natasha is, which wins her some points. “I thought we were going to play basketball.”

“Right,” Natasha says. Standing, she’s a full two inches shorter than America, who smirks down at her. “I love basketball.”

She does not love basketball; actually, she is very bad at basketball. After an hour, she’s sweatier than she is after hot yoga, and the score is something like one million to ten, and America won’t stop making fun of how red in the face she is. And it’s--it’s the most fun she’s had in some time, in a _long_ time, moving and laughing and talking ineffective and probably age-inappropriate trash, all while the sun beats down and down on their heads. Apparently, the way to warm teenagers up is to give them a curb-stomp victory: America goes on about her friends and her moms and her extensive sneaker collection as they walk along, a conversation full of hairpin turns that Natasha just barely hangs on to. She’s a better kid than Natasha was, gruffly nice under the brassy front she puts up. She’s a scholarship kid at the magnet school up the road, wants to be a pilot. Uncrushed, undimmed spirit sparkles in her voice.

Natasha pushes her sunglasses onto her head inside the ice cream shop they dip into, which is good and bad: good because she doesn’t have any money but the owner is too excited that she’s in his store to charge her, bad because America’s eyes bug out and Natasha feels the afternoon ease start to seize up like clay left in the sun.

“You could have _mentioned_ ,” America says, accusatory. “I wouldn’t have called you as many names.”

“Sure,” Natasha says; and then, because she feels bad: “Wanna see my car? It’s fancy.”

\-----

“I don’t know how this happened,” she tells Clint, and he looks at her, side-eyed, skeptical.

“Don’t you?” he asks; and, okay, look, it goes like this:

Because Natasha feels bad about lying to America, because Natasha hasn’t spent time with children since she was one herself, because Natasha is trying very hard to _care_ and _be nice_ and _look after someone else for once god damn it_ : she shows America her car, a classic cherry red 1970 Chevelle, and America gets starry eyed, literally. Natasha’s just met the kid and already she can’t say no to her; one reassuring phone call with one of her mothers and America’s in the passenger seat, whooping out the window as they fly down the PCH. “Where do you live?” America asks, and Natasha points out her house on the bluff up ahead; “Can I see it?” America asks, and Natasha figures it can’t hurt and takes the turn.

And it feels pretty cool, like in a soul-reforming sort of way, to show America some of the projects she’s working on, and give nebulous career advice, and to say “I don’t think your moms would let you do that,” like a real adult would, when America asks if she can drive one of Natasha’s other cars. Today is a good day, she decides while America texts all her friends, today is something she could do again, regularly, maybe. She could mentor other kids, or start her own charity, maybe create a few scholarships. She could be a Natasha Romanoff who cares about other people, who throws money _and_ herself at problems. This isn’t too hard.

Then the doorbell rings. “I’ll get it!” America shouts, all dimples and disarming smile as she runs off. Natasha follows more sedately, feeling inordinately proud of herself until she arrives to a foyer full of teenagers dressed for the pool. “I didn’t invite _everyone_ ,” America insists, one arm slung around Clint’s archery partner. “I just invited Kate, and she did the rest.”

“ _Did she_ ,” says Natasha, but the danger that would send her employees diving behind desks has zero effect on Kate, who smiles innocently and says, “Clint says you never use your pool, so I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“I… don’t,” Natasha admits, taken aback. One afternoon with a teenager has not taught her enough about how to talk to them. “Uh.” A sea of expectant teenaged faces look up at her, open and honest and cracking her right down the middle. “It’s all yours.” A cheer goes up; America marches them all through the house, proudly pointing out the same features Natasha had only an hour earlier as if she lives there, too. Natasha waits until they’re all outside before calling Clint.

He sighs in greeting. “Natasha, I don’t want to argue again.”

“There are twenty teenagers in my pool,” Natasha says. “Help. This is an emergency.”

“Oh _god_ ,” Clint says. “Stay in your office and don’t move. I’ll be there soon.”

So: “Don’t you?” Clint asks with that sideways glance, and Natasha thinks he’s smiling a little, but she can’t tell.

“ _No_ ,” Natasha insists. “I was just trying to be _nice_.” The sun is thinking about setting, flaming brilliantly over the gaggle of kids shrieking and jumping and splashing all over her perfectly manicured backyard. “This is what I get for trying to do an act of service for you.”

Clint is definitely smiling now, triumphant. “I knew you read that love languages book,” he says, stepping away from Natasha trying to elbow him. “And this wasn’t an act of service for me, Nat: it was for the kids, and--”

“If you say, ‘and an act of service for your soul’ I will push you into this pool,” Natasha threatens, only partially because she’s very curious about how his t-shirt will wetly mold itself to his body.

“I would never,” Clint says, draping a warm arm around her and tucking her under his shoulder. “You really did something good, though,” he whispers into her hair, quiet enough that Natasha can pretend not to realize that words of affirmation really are her love language after all.


End file.
